


Space Pirate Love Song

by WelpThisIsMyLifeNow



Series: Art Trades, Commissions, Gifts, and One-Shots [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Arranged Marriage, Fell pirates in space? Might be more likely than you think, Firefly References, Inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean, Inspired by Treasure Planet (2002), My life lately has become all pirates and I have no regrets, Other, Pirates, Reader Is Not Chara (Undertale), Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale), Reader referred to as they/them, Space Pirates, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsMyLifeNow/pseuds/WelpThisIsMyLifeNow
Summary: Life on the planet Myra-SN had not been unkind to you, but... there wasno wayyou could go through with this marriage. You neededout.A birthday present for Azzie :)
Relationships: Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Series: Art Trades, Commissions, Gifts, and One-Shots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1312277
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	Space Pirate Love Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProtectSyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtectSyn/gifts).



> If you’d like some musical background while reading, this is what I was listening to while writing it!  
> [Space Lofi Youtube](https://youtu.be/3ST4fDVyAzA)  
> [Space Pirate’s Love Song Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/5QwLNLvppdoC3PHcgrpsAH?si=AU7yvYUBTSu-H0QQ5ouWgg)  
> [Space Pirate’s Love Song Youtube](https://youtu.be/8Ro_SDFkkx8)  
> 

Life on Myra-SN had not been particularly unkind to you.

As a non-firstborn child from one of the more affluent families in this sector of the verse, there was not much (on the whole) expected from you. Be born? _Check_. Have a suitor from a slightly-wealthier family lined up from you since birth? _Check_. Don’t die until marriage? In progress, a _near_ -check—in fact, supposedly completed by the end of _today_.

After today? Well… That depended on your partner.

If _you_ had the choice, you’d continue the hobbies your family had allowed you to pick up during your free time. _Officially,_ this included things like drawing and gardening, but _really_ …

Well, your parents had never known about you sneaking to the trash dumps and snagging bits of busted solar surfers, _nor_ how you’d repurposed that beat-down shed on the edge of your family’s property into a ramshackle workshop. Although your family had steadily assured you that your destiny was solely based in the art of marriage, you couldn’t help but feel that there was always something _more_ : the high-hovering solar surfers seemed to call out to you from the moment you first saw the craft speeding along the skies. It only increased the moment you got your hands on one; the delicate machinery within played under your hands like an instrument you’d been taught since birth, and the song of the specs underneath the various plates sang out to you even in sleep. Totally self-taught, you quickly became a _master_ of the machines, and you spent your days (and nights, as you dreamt) taking apart and putting back together the various bits of soaring craft.

As long as you showed up on time for meals and in decent (enough) appearance, they didn’t ask or suspect anything odd about your whereabouts during the day. There were occasional periods of near discovery (such as an errant stain on your skin from a particularly messy wreck you’d missed), but luckily, your parents stayed far enough away from the _dirty_ side of life to not be able to tell the difference between dark paint and engine grease.

For years, you enjoyed your secret freedom, gladly toiling away your days in that weather-warped, rotting little shed. Although there _were_ times you’d look out that dust-yellowed window and wished to see something _other_ than a perfectly manicured yard, you knew better than to take this gift of a stable life for granted. You were, on the whole, fairly content in your life, taking joy in learning your hidden trade. 

You’d never had the chance to actually _ride_ any of the craft you’d made (it was dangerous enough to scamper off to the dump in the dead of night, let alone risk being seen zooming around the place), but you heard they worked well enough from the hooligans you doled them out to. The kids would, in turn, bring you new parts when needed, or let you know what worked well or what didn’t. 

Initially there had been a time when one little twerp—that Reynolds boy—had been _breaking_ some of the other kids’ machines on purpose, but… After you made him sit and watch you repair all that he’d broken (under threat you’d rat him out to his parents), he began to take interest. 

When you knew you’d gotten his interest caught for _sure_ , you told him you’d let him help both fix and test ride the rigs—but only if he cut the bad behavior. 

“I can’t _stand_ bullies,” you had said. “And you don’t _seem_ like one to me, not really.”

He had looked at you with such distrust that day—but, underneath, you could see that _small_ bit of curiosity lurking behind that venom. “Wanna bet?”

“I do,” you said simply, offering a wrench in his direction. “You show me you’re not a _total_ punk, and I’ll let you give me a hand here and keep some of the rigs we build. Sound fair?”

“...Whatever.”

Following that day, your secret shop had one full-time assistant. 

Although it had never felt particularly _nice_ to lie to your family—knowing they were well meaning enough—you figured it was a harmless omission; it helped out the kids of your neighborhood, kept _you_ out of trouble, and kept you sane in this otherwise stiff cookie-cutter life they’d tried to put you into. Plus, _technically_ you were painting when you decorated the boards, so… really, it was barely a lie at all. Plus _plus_ , you doubted your future fiancé would _actually_ mind, so it was likely totally fine! 

When dreaming of your future partner, you hoped the same thing every little child did: that they’d be kind, and not too offensive, _and_ —if the fates were kind enough—let you lead your life with a decent amount of freedom and minimal interference.

By the typical custom, you met your fiancé on the day you were to be wed: today, on your birthday.

It had, on the whole, not gone _quite_ as you—or your parents—had hoped. Your fiancé—a monster named Jerry—hadn’t _exactly_ been what your childhood mind had been wishing on stars for.

Oh, blast, you’d just say it ( _what did it matter at this point, anyway?_ )—he was beyond disappointing; he was actively _awful._ You couldn’t have cared less what your partner looked like—but _he_ thought he was the starlight of the universe (despite, in your opinion, looking rather like a frumpy cartoon version of an archaic UFO from homeworld). And—although you likely should have been the _last_ person to judge someone’s fashion choices—his gaudy, over-the-top outfit was such an eyesore you were seriously worried it might blind some airship’s pilot every time he stepped into the sunlight. He had also _drenched_ himself in some sort of cologne that was _worse_ than what _you_ smelled like after your trips to the dump, and constantly _insisted_ on being right next to you, practically bathing you in his smell.

This could have been easily tolerated (well, as long as you didn’t breathe, that is). But—worst of all—it was _him_ that truly was a nightmare. 

Jerry was _insufferable._

Being more of a background figure to the world, you silently had witnessed a lot pass by you—and, like the machines you worked on, you generally could find a _logic_ to people. Take the Reynolds boy: people had seen him as a busted engine, called him faulty from the day he was formed. Get him talking, though, or take a look at what kind of environment he was forced to run in—and see that he just needed a better route to blow out all that hot air. It didn’t excuse the bad behavior—a busted engine still has to do what it needs to to get fixed, after all—but you could _understand_ it.

Jerry was _beyond_ comprehension. From your initial greeting onward, there was just _nothing_ positive under that hood. Everything was taking too long, or too boring, or not up to his standards; it was like he sucked in all the beauty of the world and turned it right to smog without any spark behind it. You found you couldn’t understand it, and—for the first time in your life—you didn’t _want_ to find out.

Truly, though, you had _tried._ Like the dutiful child that you were, you wrenched your smile into place all that morning, practically sweating under the force of keeping it upright as you listened to him _moan_ about the wretched state of things (including your house, your family’s the wedding preparations themselves—which _his_ family arranged!) for hours on end. 

_This is your life now,_ you thought. _This is what you’re going to have to live with for the rest of your life._

The words churned endlessly in your mind. Like a speeding engine, it chugged faster, and louder, and rose until it vibrated your very being-

And then your parents had suggested (with coy brows raised) that you two go for a walk on the grounds. It had _seemed_ like a good idea to you at first; maybe, after all, he was that acting way when in front of others, and different when it was just the two of you…

He _was_ different when alone: somehow, he was _more_ insufferable with less distraction around.

This came to a head as you—in a desperate bid for connection or some sort of saving grace—decided to show him your little secret. You had even spruced it up before he’d arrived: the workshop was clean (save for the permanent spatter of grease and paint on the walls and floor), the door to the shed actually fully _opened_ and _closed_ , and—best of all—the Reynolds boy had let you borrow one of the finest pieces of works you’d ever given to him to show off. The envy of all the kids on the block, you’d nicknamed it _Death’s Door_ —a turbocharged surfer that seemed to be the perfect balance of tankiness and speed, lovingly painted with a mix of flames and realistic skulls. It was your absolute _masterpiece,_ and—you knew if there was one way to see a shining light through your fiancé, it would be to show him _this-_

But this, of course, was a mistake. 

He didn’t just find it silly—he practically _berated_ you in… an incredibly childlike fashion, actually.

“This is DUMB!”

“UGH! Why even _bother?_ ”

“This place is DIRTY and GROSS.”

The Reynolds boy had… pretty much said the same thing when he’d first seen your workshop, but—while the Reynolds boy had clearly just been putting on an act—you got the sense that Jerry actually _meant_ it. Worst of all—more than insulting your hideaway, or your hobby, or your life’s work—he said the one thing that you feared most:

“I’d NEVER allow a dump like this in my place.” He patted your shoulder—and his hand stuck to your skin. _Why_ was his hand sticky?! “It’s lucky you got ME. I won’t tell anyone what a WEIRD hobby you have. We can leave this place and you can FORGET about this stuff.”

He had turned out of your little shop after un-sticking his hand ( _seriously, was he just naturally sticky?!)_ , proclaiming loudly about what a “FAIL” this place was, whatever _that_ meant.

You stood in the growing silence of your dusty little shack, the emptiness of the space around you humming alongside the sudden emptiness within your gut.

You knew you’d have to give up this place eventually. You _knew_ you’d get married, and move away, and have to start life anew elsewhere…

You’d planned for that heartbreak; everything was going to go to the Reynolds boy. The grief of the loss of the life you knew would be soothed knowing this place was in good hands.

But… to _never_ do what you loved again? And to be stuck _(both literally and figuratively_ ) to _Jerry_ instead?

The sheer, vast horror of that future numbed you—all the way through the wedding preparations, and the arrival of guests to your backyard wedding, and _even_ up to the point you were supposed to walk out and be officially wed. Hell, you were nearly about to step outside—your face blank and the world feeling a thousand miles away—when you felt a tug on your arm.

It was the Reynolds boy—Malcolm. He was looking at you _almost as_ disbelievingly as the day you said you wanted him to help you in your shop.

“You’re really gonna marry this guy?” he asked, in the way that teenagers do—as if suggesting you were _choosing_ to go on a jaunt to the store, so easily dismissed.

You nodded, staring out through the glass door of your home onto the yard—where your family, loved ones, _fiancé_ were waiting. What other choice did you have?

“ _Yes_ , Mal.” Your voice sounded deadened to you—so you cleaned your throat, knowing you’d disappoint your parents if your impending _I do_ was lackluster. You found you couldn’t actually look at the lanky teen standing next to you, so you kept your gaze forward instead. “I _have_ to, Mal.” 

“I heard what he said to you at the shed,” Mal said. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath; you didn’t want to think about it yet, you _couldn’t-_ “He’s a _jerk.”_

“I _know,_ ” you said. Your voice was cracking—and you cleared your throat again. “But he’s my fiancé. I can’t not.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t stand bullies.”

Finally, you looked at Malcolm. You had to _beg_ your parents to let you invite him—and he was standing there in his grubby Sunday best, looking at you with such fiercely resolute eyes that it broke your heart.

He’d take good care of the shop while you were gone. You’d made the right choice; he was more than _just_ a little bully, after all.

Smiling at him—your lips barely able to lift against the weight of sadness and grief in your chest—you shook your head. “I know. But this is more than just a choice—it was a transaction made before I was born, there _is_ no saying no-”

“You never followed the rules before!” Malcolm said, voice filled with aggravation. “If anyone could find a way out of this, it’d be you! Why are you choosing to go through with this?”

Distantly, you wondered if this was the same feeling your parents felt when you first tried to convince them to let you have a _non-standard_ hobby: something like exhaustion, and defeat, and an inability to voice how impossible it was to be just one little person pushing back against the force of a world much greater than yourself. In lieu of any attempt at words, you sighed, reaching out to touch him comfortingly-

But he dodged your touch, backing away from you, the look of distaste on his face enough to pause your hand.

“You’ll snap out of this,” he challenged simply. “And when you do, I bet you’re gonna thank me.”

_Thank you…?_

Before you could ask, he was already stepping away, darting out of the room—not leaving to join the wedding audience, but instead, exiting through a side door. You had no idea where he was going or what he was planning to do, but…

He just didn’t get it. He was a kid, and couldn’t understand.

There just… was no other option. Nowhere to go, no escape. _This_ was your life, and there _was_ no other exit.

You opened the glass door, your heart feeling weighted and solid in your chest as you faced your future. 

The group of onlookers turned to you—ready to witness this transition of your life—and you stepped out the door. 

The yard was looking more elegant than ever; rows of chairs had been set among the various flowers and hedging on the otherwise flat lawn, filled with various faces. There was your family, of course—with your parents at the front, and the siblings of those who had been wed before you just behind—as well as members from Jerry’s family, and then faces you recognized as several elite politicians and business members from the local sector. You didn’t have much for friends—save for your little street-rat crew—so you weren’t particularly bothered by the lack of friendly faces among the crowd. 

Finally ( _speaking of a lack of friendly faces)_ there was your betrothed, standing under a flower-lined arch at the far end of the wedding procession, framed magnificently in the draining light of day. As you took a step forward, the music began to play...

But he wasn’t looking your way at all. 

No, instead of looking at his _future partner_ , Jerry was standing there, arms folded, looking at his _watch_. He seemed annoyed, and impatient, and… just wanting to get this over with.

It was your wedding day. It was your _birthday_. And this… This absolute _bully_ couldn’t even _look_ interested as you walked up the aisle?

As if guided by the fates—or, more likely, your pain-in-the-ass truly being the best assistant you could’ve ever asked for—you turned your head and saw your answer.

 _That little punk_. 

Malcolm was standing off in the distance, _Death’s Door_ at the ready.

Before you even could corral your mind into sensibility, you were already running—your legs bounding over the meticulously cut grass, the jumping onto the solid planks of your solar surfer, then _kicking_ the sparkle to light the engine-

-And you were off.

The next few moments of your life were almost _dreamlike_. You were half-convinced the soaring of wonder, adrenaline, and freedom alike was keeping your surfer afloat, the heated thrum of the engine behind you no louder than the elated pounding of your heart. Within _seconds_ , you were out the gate of your small estate, flying all the way out of the carefully-tended suburbs and into the thriving oceanside marketplace area. The skies and grounds alike were _packed_ with people, but—like you’d been flying all your life—you weaved around sluggish hoverboats stacked with goods, idling transport dinghies, and _even_ around a fancy personal cruiser.

 _Your_ work was better, faster, _and_ more badass than any bit of those state-of-the-art pieces of _junk_ you flew by! Why had you allowed yourself to miss out on flying these all your life?

“ _HEY! Dummy! You forgot to get married!”_

You looked back—and Jerry was there, chasing down your little surfer in a full-engine boat.

_FUC-_

You’d looked backwards too long, and missed the crate transport that had been pulled out into your path. 

The world seemed to pause into a brief halt as you went unassisted airborne, feet leaving the wreck as you flipped _over_ the massive crate and into a rather harsh, ungraceful landing.

“ _what the_ -”

As time resumed its rightful pace, you realized you were _somehow_ alive—but, with the pain coursing through your being, you _desperately_ wished you weren’t. 

“ _SANS!_ LAYING ABOUT INSTEAD OF WORKING AS ALWAYS, I SEE.”

The earth, pointy and hard, _growled_ beneath you. Before you could make sense of it, the world _trembled_ under you—and oh, no, that was a massive monster you were laying on that was now starting to sit up. You immediately scrambled off. 

“i wasn’t fuckin’ lazin’!” a gruff voice snarled. You quickly backed off as you turned around to face the beast—and, oh, it looked like you had landed on a rather _massive_ skeletal monster. As you rose, you noted he was extremely stockily built, standing like a massive bait barrel—you must have been going _really_ fast to knock him over. He was currently grimacing at an even _larger_ skeleton (though mostly height-wise, much more thinly built than the shorter one). “this fuckin’ rock hasn’t got _shit_ on it ‘cept fer fuckin’ humans fallin’ from the sky-”

The taller skeleton rolled his eyes, leaning down to the shorter one. You noticed there was a stark difference in how the two were dressed—the taller one was donned with a finely tailored jacket, trousers, and wide-brimmed captain’s hat, while the other was much more casually dressed in a loose-hanging shirt and breeches—clearly sailors. “ _SANS!_ WHAT KIND OF PIR-”

“ _captain pap,”_ the shorter one—Sans—cut in sharply. He then nodded in your direction. “we ain’t ‘xactly aboard ship yet, yeah?”

The taller skeleton—indeed, the apparent captain of the shorter one—set his gaze on you. His face, you noticed, had several cracks along it, and his pupils (two red eyelights that hovered in the center of scarred sockets) looked rather menacing as he stared you down. 

“HUMAN! AS CAPTAIN OF THIS FINE SHIP-” he gestured to a sturdy and fast-looking Argentum vessel docked just behind him. It wasn’t the _largest_ boat you’d ever seen—in fact, Argentums tended to be on the smaller side of spacefaring craft—but this close, it was nonetheless imposing, looking rather travel-hardened and in need of _quite_ a bit of work. “-I, THE GREAT AND MALEVOLENT CAPTAIN PAPYRUS, DEMAND YOU EXTRACT YOURSELF AT ONCE! WE HAVE BUSINESS TO ATTEND TO, AND I CANNOT AFFORD MY LAZY QUARTERMASTER GETTING DISTRACTED THROUGH SUCH FRATERNIZING PALAVERING!”

“i toldja, cap, i wasn’t fuckin’ _fraternizin’-”_ Sans grumbled, though paused when he set his eyelights on you, seeming to actually regard you for the first time. After a beat, his grin widened, and he turned away from his captain to address you more fully, his stance downshifting from angry to casual as he stuck his hands in his pockets. “though, _guess_ i wouldn’t mind doin’ a bit of fraternizin’ after all. lookin’ like that fallin’ out of the sky, ya must be an angel-”

“ _SANS!_ YOUR MISSION IS _NOT_ FLIRTING, BUT TO FIND A REPLACEMENT MECHAN-”

“HEY! You!”

The three of you turned—and, lo and behold, Jerry was standing there, clearly having found you after your tumble. Behind him sat the ship he’d been on, with several individuals he had invited to the wedding _(Family? Friends? Paid entourage? You had no idea)_ pouring out of it _._ Looking closer, you saw they all… They all had _laser pistols in their hands what the fuck Jerry?!_

In a moment of pure, animalistic panic, you considered your options—before your brain decided to hold your ground, squaring your shoulders as you turned to face them. As logic returned to you, this seemed to be like the best option—fleeing might result in you or your unwitting companions getting shot (lest your fiancé have an especially jolty trigger finger), and, more importantly—you had to take a bully head-on.

“friends a’ yers?” came the rumbling baritone of Sans from your side. Though you didn’t look his way—refusing to break eye contact with the amassing group—you shook your head in response.

“Afraid not. Ex-fiance.”

“YOU WERE MARRYING _THAT?_ ” the captain’s strident voice huffed from your other side. “IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU MIGHT HAVE A CHANCE AFTER ALL, SANS.”

“No, Jerry wasn’t exactly _my_ choice; he was my parents’.” The group were now taking a step forward—and you took an instinctive step backwards, bumping into the unmoving boulder that was Sans behind you. You immediately murmured an apology, stumbling to get out of his way—but Sans’s massive hands moved to your arms, steadying you.

“ah, that’s right. forgot they did that kinda backwards shit out in this sector—er, no offense.”

“None taken,” you deadpanned, watching as they got closer. Stepping out of Sans’s hands, you risked a glance back at the two skeletons. “Listen, you guys might wanna jet—I didn’t expect them to give chase like this, and it might get messy.”

The two skeletons were silent behind you—you half-expected that they just heeded your words and took off—but were distracted from finding out as Jerry spoke.

“Wow, you SUCK at getting married!” he called. The group thankfully paused their advancement as he did so; perhaps they thought you might be armed as well? “Luckily you’re marrying ME, and I’m willing to get it over with.”

“I’m all set!” you called back casually—somewhat hoping that a friendly disposition would keep things from escalating too far, or perhaps to not look afraid. “I’m just gonna… Go and _not_ do that, alright?”

“And do WHAT?” Jerry called back. “You think your parents are going to keep you around? Get REAL, idiot!”

A surge of anger had you balling your fists—but a part of you seriously wondered if he was right. It was the _only_ thing they had ever really expected of you, and you had fucked it all up, but… You just _couldn’t-_

“hey,” Sans murmured low. You turned to him, slightly surprised that he was there at all still. His gaze was mostly focused on your ex, though he nodded his head to the side. “ya outfit that yerself?”

A beat of confusion—and then your eyes turned to the direction he’d nodded, and you saw the hunk of smoldering, molten wreck that was your beloved _Death’s Door_. “Shit! I did make it myself, but I’d given it to my friend—oh, man, Mal’s not gonna be happy-”

“HEY!” Jerry called. “I’m still here, you know! Let’s get this moving! This place is LAME and I want to go home!” He then turned to the rather irritable looking fellows around him. “Let’s get this over with!”

In your peripheral, you saw the large skeleton nod _almost_ imperceptibly—you weren’t sure exactly at what—but then you saw his grin come back, golden canine shining against the sunset light. With a heavy jolt, you felt his large boney hand clap down on your shoulder, and he turned his focus back on your ex-fiancé’s troupe. 

“heya, there, pals!” he called to the group. To your surprise, they stopped in their cautious advancement—though Sans’s words in of themselves were quite jovial, it was said with the same tone as when greeting someone with a gun to the back when robbing them. _I’m just as happy to take your money with you dead or alive, which would you prefer?_ “what can we do ya fer?”

“This has nothing to do with _you_ ,” Jerry said. “YOU can buzz off!”

Though you’d never felt it before—you’d never even come _close_ to anything resembling a fight—even _you_ could sense the sudden spike of magic in the air, the hair on your arm raising as your skin tingled. Next to you, Sans chuckled—but devoid of any _real_ humor, a laugh you more felt than heard.

“what’d ya recon, cap’n pap? think this ain’t got nothin’ ta do with us?”

“I THINK _I’M_ THE ONLY ONE WHO DECIDES WHAT IS OR ISN’T RELEVANT.” The lean skeleton folded his arms, frowning severely at the group. He then pointed stiffly at you, and you instinctually flinched under Sans’s grip. “THIS HUMAN IS _OURS_.”

You blinked, dumbfounded as you stared up at him. _Uh. What?_

“Hey!” Jerry called. “They’re mine! Get your own, _idiots!_ ”

Sans’s bones went rigid against you, and you could _taste_ the level of pure, fuck-up mistake in the air. Sans gently urged you a step or so away from his Captain, lowering his voice.

“heheh, now cap, remember we don’t want the guard called-”

You weren’t sure what Sans had been expecting, but you doubted it was the flippant wave that Papyrus gave, brushing him off. His grin then sharpened at the group, and he put his hands on his hips, cocking his head challengingly. “WELL, LUCKILY TAKING THINGS THAT DON'T BELONG TO US IS _JUST_ WHAT WE’RE BEST AT.”

_Wait. What?_

“WAIT!” Jerry called, seeming to put the pieces together. “Are you losers… PIRATES?”

You looked up at the skeletons—neither of who refuted the claim. You felt your stomach drop. 

_Oh_ **_fuck_** _._

As if sensing your increased panic, the hold on your shoulder tightened—not painfully so, but firmly enough to keep you in place. Sans chuckled again darkly, his free hand raising before he snapped his fingers—and a pointed bone apparated into his hand. 

“us? _naw_ , we like ta think of ourselves as… opportunists.” He then winked at the group, who had frozen quite solidly. Even if it _was_ just two against a whole group of them—pirates were _not_ known for their fair fights, and the sheer brutal force of their assaults had even the most hardened of guards pausing before picking a fight with a fully outfitted ship. “n’ we were _just_ about to extend an opportunity ta our friend here.”

You looked up to Sans, who was already gazing down in your direction. He winked at you. 

“what do ya say, angel? wanna get off this rock?”

Mind exploding, you could only stare at him, utterly dumbfounded. For the briefest of moments, hope soared in your chest—thoroughly dodging any clinging _what the fuck are you thinking_ that attempted to intercept it in its climb. The thought of _escape_ —not just of Jerry, but of these stupid conventions, of this _planet_ —crashed over you. You had already planned to leave this place behind, but if you could do it _and_ be **free** -

“You can’t do that!” Jerry called, stamping his odd, stubby foot. “They’re _legally_ MY betrothed— _I_ say where they go and what they do!”

You took a step closer to Sans, the hope in your heart shuddering. Even if they dropped you off somewhere, your parents would likely _never_ send you the credits to start somewhere else, and Jerry could even legally hire a bountyman to try to retrieve you-

“‘zat so?” Sans asked, though it seemed more to himself than to Jerry. 

“DUH! Who DOESN’T know that?” Jerry said. He notably put away his pistol—as if sensing that there was no longer a threat in this conversation. “They’re clearly not worth the trouble! So just hand ‘em back over!”

You could feel your hands start to tremble, acid clenching in your gut. What had you been thinking, running away? There was no getting out of this, no escape...

“welp, guess there’s nothin’ for it. sorry, lad, but they’re already married.”

You balked, unable to keep any kind of poker face against that blatant lie. Jerry, similarly, looked on in disbelief. “Yeah, RIGHT! To who?!”

“ta me. _captain_ papyrus?”

_Excuse me?_

Captain Papyrus—still glaring in the direction of Jerry—waved a hand in the direction of the two of you.

“I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU MARRIED IDIOTS. CAN WE GO ALREADY?”

 _Excuse ME_ **_WHAT_** _-_

“WHAT?!” Jerry exclaimed. “You can’t… you can’t just DO that!”

“I CAN AND I HAVE. FAREWELL, PATHETIC MONSTER.”

Numb with disbelief, you went to look at Sans—hoping to find any sign that this was a joke—but flinched instead as the sound of a laser pistol going off had you instantly ducking. 

“Get your own human, twerps!” Jerry said. He now had the gun raised—whether a purposeful warning shot into the air or on accident, you weren’t sure. “You think I’M just gonna stand here and let it happen? There’s ten of us and two of you! Let’s GETEM, guys!”

Without a second thought, you stepped closer to the two massive skeletons—deciding that the devil you didn’t know was much better than _the devil that currently had a pistol in his hand seriously what the fuck dude??_

“SANS!” 

“onnit, cap!”

You abruptly felt massive boney hands scoop you up and lift you high off the ground. To your surprise, you found you were in the arms of the fearsome Captain Papyrus—looking over, Sans had raised a wall of bones to protect your group from the rain of laserfire. In the next moment, the Captain was making long strides towards the ship; with a wave of his hand, the gangplank to the Argentum vessel opened up, and he was quickly carrying you inside, thoroughly ignoring the dings and pangs of the laserfire hitting the ship. He dropped you unceremoniously, only half-slipping you upright, his fist immediately crashing into a button on a panel by the entrance. The gangplank swiftly closed behind him— _without_ Sans.

Without so much as a word to you, Papyrus fast-walked through the hull’s darkened metal corridor, moving through several thick doorways. Stumbling along, you followed him—between your poor footing and severely shorter legs, by the time you caught up with him, he was already seated in the main chair of the pilot’s control room, tapping at various screens and flicking switches and pulling small levers-

“Captain! We can’t just leave without Sans-”

“aw, sweet ta hear ya’d miss me, angel,” came a voice _right behind you_. Jumping, you turned to find Sans somehow standing there.

_How in the hell did he..?_

“STOP FLIRTING AND PREPARE FOR TAKEOFF!” Captain snapped. Sans merely grinned, nodding his head towards a large, plush seat off to the side.

“here, take a seat and we’ll get ya strapped in. guard’s on their way, so it’s gonna be one hell of a bumpy ride.”

Quickly sitting down, you watched as Sans began to help you strap into the seat. You knew it wasn’t _exactly_ the right time to sort through what happened—but you had to say _something_. “Thank you both; I’m sorry to have caused you two trouble.”

“YOU CAN APOLOGIZE BY HELPING US,” Captain Papyrus said. “MY BROTHER SEEMS TO THINK YOU’D BE A WORTHY REPLACEMENT FOR OUR MECHANIC.”

_Your brother? They’re… oh!_

“but only if ya want ta come aboard,” Sans said, grinning at you as his hands adjusted the straps of the seat—clearly, the last crewmember had been _much_ larger than yourself. “if not, we can drop ya off somewhere else. as ya can imagine, we know a couple places that wouldn’t ask too much fer questions, n’ could use a good mechanical eye.”

You stared at him, the question feeling slightly overwhelming. These two… were not quite what you expected _pirates_ to be like. Well, excluding physically—they were indeed massive, and intimidating, and (similar to his brother) Sans had much evidence of battles fought, with cracks along his skull and hands…

But they had saved you, a total stranger. What pirates _did_ that? Weren’t they all supposed to be cutthroat and merciless, the ultimate scourge of space?

“tell ya what,” Sans said, kneeling down to eye level—obviously you’d taken too long to answer. “why don’t ya take some time ta think about it? maybe ya can look at some of our busted stuff after we clear atmo n’ see what ya can do, then if ya wanna keep with it, ya can?”

He was looking at you patiently, even as the ship began to rumble with the start of the engines. You felt your heart swell, and it took you some willpower to not let yourself tear up.

“That… sounds good. Thank you both.”

Sans clicked the final clasp of the harness into place, winking at you as he stood up. “hey, that’s what husband’s ‘re fer.”

You laughed, and you caught his grin widened as he moved over to his own seat, snapping the belts into place with much more practiced ease. Your seat began to shake beneath you, and you felt your stomach be pulled back as the ship began to lift away. A flash of memory hit you—of the _one_ time you’d got to go to the fair as a child, and rode one of the spinning tilt-a-whirls. You had imagined—hoped, _dreamed_ —that it was a similar sensation you’d feel when taking off for the first time on your future wedding day. 

Who knew it would be even _more_ exciting?

Anticipation fluttering in your stomach, you couldn’t stop the dopey grin on your face. Turning to Sans, an amused thought struck you. _This is way better than I could’ve ever hoped this birthday could’ve happened, I think. I would’ve never even dreamed I would’ve escaped marriage!_

You then hesitated, breathing out a laugh and turning to Sans.

“Hey, Sans... You both were kidding about that married thing, right?”

His browbone raised for a moment—before his grin widened, and he winked at you once again.

“sorry, angel. pirates marry fer life.”

_...What?_

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Captains being able to marry people is a myth, but… Sans is gonna wait a bit before letting the reader in on that ;)
> 
> A very very happy birthday to Azzie! Space Pirates was quite a challenge (but one I couldn’t say no to as soon as you suggested it, such a fantastically fun idea!!!), so I hope yall like it ^^
> 
> A very huge thank you to LadyIzo for helping me workshop the heck out of this ;-; I literally could not have done it without you! 
> 
> I took a lot of inspiration from Treasure Planet, Firefly, and Pirates of the Caribbean, among others! I think the only reference in there that’s impossible to get is the name of the planet itself—Myra-SN—which I picked based off of Saint Nicholas of Myra. I know nothing about saints, but in my research I found out he was the patron saints of pirates AND the unwed (among others), so I thought it was pretty fitting :) Hope yall like!


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